Prologue
March 1, 1927
Fairview, Tennessee
The suffering and pain a woman must face is to be borne in silence and with grace. The words echoed in Eleanor Blackwood’s mind exactly as Aunt Annabelle used to recite them.
Every day of her childhood, they had crept into her thoughts, branding themselves there until she began to believe them. She had no choice. It was the only way to please the woman who raised her and shaped her into the ideal bride for an eligible bachelor.
Today, fifteen years into her marriage and carrying her third child, she had seen more suffering—by both men and women—than she’d ever thought possible. And yet, for some unspokenreason, society still expected women to endure it quietly. It wasn’t right. It couldn’t be. How was she supposed to carry such a burden in silence? Worse—alone.
It was nearing six in the morning, a familiar periwinkle hue pushing through the window as the sun crept over the horizon.
She placed one hand on her hip to support her aching back and made her way down the stairs and out to the back garden. A tear slipped down her cheek, and she pressed her lips together to steady their quiver. The crisp mountain air brushed her skin, a chilly breeze cutting through the stillness. The doctor said fresh air was good for her condition—so she had a ready excuse if Thomas came looking for her.
Her breaths grew heavier, sobs tightening in her throat. No. She had to reach her spot first. Then she could cry. No one must see her.
Suffer in silence. Always suffer in silence.
She placed one hand on her swollen belly and reached the other behind her to steady herself as she lowered onto the stone bench. Only then did she allow the tears and sobs to break free.
The small life inside her fluttered, as if sensing her distress.
“Hush now,” she whispered, smoothing her hand over the curve of her abdomen. “Mama will keep you safe. I promise.”
But could she?
The question had stolen her sleep for weeks—had her inspecting her food before every meal, locking her bedroom door at night despite Thomas’s reassurances. Why couldn’t he understand her fear?
There was no way of knowing whether the child she carried was a boy or a girl. Not yet. But whatever the baby was would determine the danger ahead—not for her, but for this innocent life that had yet to draw its first breath.
At least she knew the source of that danger.
Richard.
Her husband’s nephew’s words from the previous week still haunted her. He had placed his hand on her belly—uninvited, presumptuous—and smiled in a way far too cold for a seventeen-year-old boy.
“Let’s hope God blesses you with another daughter, Eleanor,” he’d said softly. “For the baby’s sake, of course. Sons can cause such… complications.”
On the surface, it sounded like concern. Beneath it lay a threat she could not ignore.
When Thomas’s father had formed the business, he’d ensured the contracts and deeds were drawn so that only the next male Blackwood could inherit its vast assets upon turning eighteen. Eleanor had already given Thomas two daughters. That meant Richard was the heir—unless this baby was a boy.
Richard had wrapped his warning in silk and false concern, but it was a warning nonetheless.
Thomas hadn’t taken it seriously.
That night, in their bedroom, his voice had taken on the patient, condescending tone she’d grown to dread. “Darling, these fears you’re having—they’re not uncommon in expectant mothers. Nerves. The doctor says it’s quite normal for women in your condition to become… overwrought.”
Overwrought.
As though she hadn’t overheard Richard himself on the telephone, muttering that if she gave birth to a boy, something would need to be done.
“Eleanor,” Thomas had continued gently, “Richard would never harm an infant. Especially not his own kin. He’s only seventeen, for heaven’s sake. Since his mother passed, he’s become like my own son.”
But Eleanor had seen it—the calculation in Richard’s eyes, the darkness beneath boyish smiles and thoughtful gifts.
Richard would turn eighteen in two weeks.
